


over the summer

by dansunedisco



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Hotels, Missing Scene, Non-Human Jordan Parrish, Pre-Relationship, Road Trips, Romantic Friendship, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 17:33:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4271970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They drive down the coast on a hunch, all the way to Monterey.</p><p>-</p><p>Or: a missing moment between Lydia and Parrish in the summer before senior year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	over the summer

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the anon who wanted a "what is Parrish?" trip + bed sharing.
> 
> FYI, there's no bed sharing in this story, although they do stay in the same hotel room. There are a lot of Marrish feels, though.

“I found a rare books dealer in Monterey,” Lydia says, leaning over his desk. It’s a Tuesday, and one of the hottest days of the summer. “They won’t do any business over the phone, so. Road trip?”

Jordan wants to say no. He does. Weeks of pouring over books, trying to learn Latin (and French, and German) so he can _understand_ what he’s pouring over--it’s exhausting, the question mark that has popped up over his entire life chalking up to be unsolvable. Instead, he says, “Shouldn’t you be… oh, I don’t know, enjoying your summer?” 

She narrows her eyes at him. “What could be more enjoyable than figuring out what’s going on with you? You know I like a good puzzle.” She pauses for a beat. “Or do you really like being chained to your desk that much?” 

“Someone has to man the phones,” he replies dryly. His demotion to desk duty is no secret, but it’s still a sore subject.

“Sure, but why you? Can’t that new deputy do it?”

“I’m touched by how much sway you think I have around here.” 

“Just ask Sheriff Stilinski for some time off. It’ll take us three days at most,” she coaxes. “Would it help if I told you I already booked a hotel and their refund policy is super harsh?”

“Lydia,” he sighs. He glances over her shoulder into Sheriff Stilinski’s office. The older man is on the phone, rubbing his forehead; a stack of files are sitting in his inbox. Files Jordan thinks will surely find their way into his. He doesn’t want to shirk his duties, but ever since Mexico--well, he’s never felt more like a rookie screw-up than he does now, and no one’s giving him answers as to _why_ he’s being treated this way. Time off could be good for him. Maybe they’ll actually find answers, too. And three days… that’s doable. “I’ll ask. But don’t get your hopes up.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

As promised, he asks the sheriff for the weekend when his shift ends. He’s not sure if he should be insulted or relieved when the sheriff only nods his head, like he’s resigned or maybe relieved, and says, “Still trying to--uh, figure things out?” 

“Something like that.” He shrugs, a weary haze settling over him just thinking about more research. “Lydia thinks she has a lead.”

The sheriff nods again, sighs. “I hope it pans out, kid.”

Jordan does, too.

 

-

 

Lydia shows up at his apartment with an entire suitcase stuffed to the gills on Friday, insisting that most of the heft is in books and research material when he teases her about it.

“It _is_ ,” she says, and refuses his help to lift it into the trunk of his car with a spiteful glare. It looks entirely too much next to his carefully packed duffle bag--and very feminine. For the first time, Jordan looks at what he’s agreed to do from an outsider’s perspective. When they leave Beacon Hills, the assumption will be that he and Lydia are _together_. Together, and going on an overnight vacation.

“I mean, are you sure you brought _enough_?” she asks, bumping him out of his thoughts. “You better not ask to use my shampoo when you realize you forgot yours.”

“I’ll just use the hotel stuff,” he says, hiding his smile when she huffs, like the thought of using off-brand insults her very existence. “Don’t worry about me. I’m used to packing light.”

“Is that a personal preference or…?”

“Old Army habits,” he clarifies. “My dark secret? I always bring more socks than I need.” He shuts the trunk and clambers into the driver’s side, Lydia slipping in next to him in the passenger’s seat. “All those stories of foot rot and gangrene put a certain fear in a guy after a while.” 

She wrinkles her nose. “I would be extremely impressed if you caught either in California,” she says. “You could always start wearing flip-flops as a precautionary measure?”

“But then what will I do with all the socks?”

Lydia looks at him like he’s lost his mind, then bursts into laughter a beat later. It’s the first time Jordan’s really heard her _laugh_ \--unsurprising, really, considering all the terrible things that have happened in Beacon Hills, and doubly so before he rode into town. Still, he can’t help but smile at the way her eyes light up, at the easy way she carries herself around him. She might be dragging him down the road of self-discovery, but he can’t help but think he’s helping her in some way, too.

 

-

 

They drive into Carmel just before sunset, passing a slew of signs announcing a summer festival that’s supposed to last all weekend.

“Looks like fun,” he says, nodding his head towards the stands in the distance. There’s a ferris wheel, too, already lit up in bright lights.

“Looks like a distraction,” Lydia replies, but she’s smiling.

In the end, they have to take a detour through the town to the hotel, several streets already blocked off for tomorrow’s parade. By the time they park, haul her suitcase and his bag into the lobby, Jordan’s ready to crash. But the simple task of getting their room keys turns into a tense affair when the receptionist insists she only has _one_ room reserved under Lydia Martin, that they’re fully booked, and _no_ , they do not have cots available, sorry.

Lydia fumes silently afterwards, fingers tapping away at her phone. “There has to be one hotel in this damn town that’ll take us.”

“Hey,” he says, gently touching her the elbow. She looks up at him, expression softening slightly. He gives her an encouraging smile. “I can sleep on the couch, or the floor. It’s late, and we can work the rest out tomorrow.”

“You shouldn’t have to sleep on the floor, or the couch,” she says, mouth twisting unhappily. “This trip is supposed to be for you.” 

“It’s fine. Really,” he says. He’s slept on worse. “I promise. Let’s get the room.”

She agrees, albeit reluctantly.

They split the time in the bathroom, him first, and he’s already halfway passed out on the loveseat when she emerges, background light surrounding her form like a halo. It’s not the first time he’s had to acknowledge how beautiful she is, but it’s strikingly easy to see it now, and to admit it. He thinks back guiltily to his earlier revelation, that people will see them and expect them to be more than whatever it is they are now. She has to know.

He turns his gaze to the carpet when she pads across the room, and he listens to the rustle of the sheets as she pulls them back and slides in. Her breathing is slow, methodical, and he falls into the same rhythm after a few minutes. 

“Are you worried?” she asks quietly, breaking the silence. “That you’ll never know what you are?”

“Sure,” he replies softly, because it’s the truth. “Going twenty-four years without knowing I’m--I’m _something_ is… it’s hard to accept. But... I’m more worried about what it means for everyone else. That I could--lose control. Hurt someone. Not even know why I’m doing it, or know how to stop it.”

“What you did to Brunski, to Haigh--they deserved it,” she whispers fiercely. “You’re a _good_ guy, Parrish. A good person.” 

“Good people can do bad things,” he says, and then swallows thickly. He had to go to mandatory therapy after he shot Brunski, and no matter how much he doesn’t regret pulling the trigger, it still took its toll. “I don’t even know what I’m capable of anymore.”

“I know how you feel,” she says, after a long moment. “If it makes you feel any better, I spent a really, really long time thinking I was… crazy. Eichen House crazy.”

“But you’re not.” 

“No,” she says, voice wavering slightly. “But I could be. I hear things. See things. Banshees don’t have a good track record with keeping it together, remember?” 

“You’re stronger than you know, Lydia,” he says. “And I hope I can be there for you, if you ever need me. Like you’ve been there for me.”

He hears her breathe in, a short little gasp. “You’re a good person,” she says again, even quieter than before. “I believe that.” She rolls onto her side, the bed squeaking with the weight change. Her breathing isn’t so even now, almost like she’s trying to hold back tears. “Good night, Parrish.”

He looks up at the ceiling, at the sliver of yellow light that’s barely creeping through the blinds, and, despite the sadness lingering in the air, he feels nothing but hope for tomorrow.


End file.
